


Restless (the Northern Lights Remix)

by MiraMira



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Daemons, Exploration, Friendship, Gen, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-21
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 13:00:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4180767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MiraMira/pseuds/MiraMira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are only so many places on an outpost Miles can go to escape unwanted company.  And in the case of Julian Bashir, there is only so long he can hold out before the company is no longer unwelcome.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restless (the Northern Lights Remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [echoinautumn (maybetwice)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybetwice/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Restless](https://archiveofourown.org/works/315578) by [echoinautumn (maybetwice)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maybetwice/pseuds/echoinautumn). 



> echoinautumn, I was utterly charmed by your original story and the idea of Bashir and O'Brien in a steampunk setting. Then I started wondering just what the North of this world might look like, and that led to armored bears, and...um, well, there are suspiciously familiar daemons (and a surprise cameo appearance) now. I hope that's okay.

“We have company, Miles,” says Keiko with a rare growl in her throat, ears back and fur bristling.

Miles watches the stranger approach their table. A frilled lizard daemon of a type Miles has never seen before clings to the man's collar. Although too old for a cabin boy despite his gangliness, he has the same incongruous air of delight at simply being here, out beyond the bounds of the civilized world. Of course, the drinks that have no doubt contributed to his unsteady gait may have something to do with that. 

“Can I help you?” Miles inquires, with the most discouraging glower he can muster.

The stranger just grins as he comes to a stop. From his glazed expression, Miles suspects he's already forgotten his errand.

“I see introductions are left to me, then,” says the lizard, in a surprisingly coherent - and male - voice. “Elim, at your service. This fellow, when he is not trying to drown himself in his cups, is Doctor Julian Bashir.” 

“ _Doctor_ Bashir?” blurts Keiko, unable to hide their mutual alarm. “You mean, one of those university researchers?”

Elim flashes a lizard approximation of a pained smile. Bashir giggles and waves a scolding finger in Miles's face. “Salud—salutatio—second in my class at Oxford Medical,” he declares, in an accent just posh enough to make the assertion slightly less ridiculous.

“Congratulations,” grumbles Miles, abandoning all hope of finishing his beer as he edges away and scans the room for the subtlest path to the exit. “Your shipmates must be very impressed.”

The doctor looks perplexed for a moment. “Shipma—? Oh. No, no.” He halts Miles's forward progress by slinging an arm across his shoulders, heedless of Keiko's warning bark. “You're O'Brien? The man who fixes the airships?”

“Chief Engineer, yes.” Miles extricates himself from Bashir's grip as gently as possible. “If you're in need of my help, you'll have to put in a request with the commander.”

Bashir pulls him back, with unexpected strength. Although his cheerful grin gives no sign of offense at or even awareness of O'Brien's previous escape, he clearly does not intend to let go any time soon. “Talked to him earlier. He's the one who said I should meet you. I'm the new outpost doctor. We're going to be collegian—collegial—colleagues.”

Miles knows he should offer up some polite if noncommittal response to this news, but all he can do is wonder what tale the hapless figure in front of him could possibly have spun that would have taken in as seasoned and skeptical a man as Sisko. Even Keiko, who can usually be counted on to reassure those put off by Miles's brusqueness that he takes his work _very_ seriously, seems at a loss for social graces. “See you around, then,” he says at last, attempting to wrench himself free.

“Wait.” Bashir turns him bodily to face a particularly comely barmaid, butterfly daemon flitting about her as she laughs at another customer's joke. “That girl. You know her?”

“Leeta?” Miles finds himself liking the doctor less and less by the minute. “I don't know how they do things in Oxford, but Mister Quark doesn't take kindly to patrons bothering the serving girls.”

“Oh, I've no intention of bothering her,” says Bashir, with a wink inviting Miles to a conspiracy in which he wants no part. “Merely offering an opportunity. If she chooses not to take it...ah, well. A man can still try.”

With that, he finally relinquishes his hold on Miles and heads purposefully if not unswervingly in Leeta's general direction, Elim scrambling up his neck. The last thing Miles hears before the two are swallowed up in a crowd of aeronauts is a pleading, “Julian, I really don't think—” 

“Poor thing,” Keiko murmurs. Miles is certain she does not mean Bashir.

“Yes, well, as you're fond of reminding me, you don't get to choose your person,” he says, tossing an extra coin on the bar as he walks past. The Cog and The Cask is in for a rough night of it. “Let's head back to our quarters before things get interesting, shall we?”

\- 

A drink isn't the only thing Miles abandons in his haste to flee, he discovers the next morning. He has just finished retrieving his hat from the bar when he hears someone clearing their throat behind him. “Chief O'Brien?”

He turns, and finds himself as unsurprised by the voice's owner as by the impressive bruise adorning the man's right eye, or the bedraggled state of his daemon. “Doctor Bashir.”

“Julian, please.” Bashir doesn't attempt to block his path this time, he is pleased to note. “I believe you're one of many to whom I owe an apology for my conduct last night.”

Miles snorts, looking pointedly at Bashir's shiner. “You'd better start with Leeta if you haven't already, or this'll be a short conversation.”

“I'm told the lady herself is off shift at the moment, but I believe I've squared away matters with her employer.” Bashir nods across the bar, to where Quark and his magpie daemon are tallying up a small pile of money. “It would hardly do to get myself banned from the only source of entertainment for at least fifty leagues in any direction my first day here.”

“More like seventy-five,” says Keiko.

“And further from any competent medical care,” Miles can't help adding.

Bashir sighs. “I suppose I deserve that. But I promise you, the only alcohol permitted in my clinic is of the sterilizing variety.”

“Although I suspect it would be difficult to tell the difference between that and some of last night's imbibings,” murmurs Elim.

“I heard that,” Quark calls, not looking up from his counting.

Amusing though it might be to watch Bashir sink into arrears in his efforts to placate Quark, Miles decides to take pity with a change of subject. “So, this clinic of yours. Hypothetical, or...?”

“Quite real.” Bashir brightens, and for the first time, Miles can see where the man got the idea that people might find him charming. “Commander Sisko told me the previous doctor hadn't found a new tenant before his departure, so I moved myself in. The supplies are better than I expected, and the view of the mountains is breathtaking.”

“Really,” says Miles. “Did the commander also tell you the previous doctor left us by taking a walk off those mountains?”

The light goes out of Bashir's face. “Ah...no.”

“Commander Sisko, you sly devil,” says Elim, with what almost sounds like admiration.

“Well, no reason to believe history will...repeat itself.” Bashir, Miles has to admit, is doing an admirable job of pulling himself together. “It isn't as though I intend to stay forever. Just a few months, maybe a year to get my feet under me, and then off to the next port of call.” He looks at Miles, radiating optimism once more. “Maybe...you could give me some advice? You must have seen a lot of expeditions come and go.”

Every last part of Miles pleads with him to refuse—including Keiko, who stifles a whimper at the thought of more drunken shenanigans. But as Miles himself so helpfully pointed out, stick around the outpost long enough, and there are only so many places one can go before running into unwanted company. Better here than being hunted down in his workshop. And maybe if he's lucky, he can talk Bashir on board a passing ship and be rid of the man. “All right.”

\- 

“You've never been to Nippon?”

“Never. Why do you sound so shocked by—? Oh.” Miles follows Bashir's glance to where Keiko sits, ears only half-trained on Miles as she talks with Elim. “No, truth be told, until I crewed with a man who'd seen the breed before, I thought she was some sort of Samoyed sled dog.”

“Must still have seemed an odd fit for an Irish lad.”

“I suppose.” He sees the conversational lure, and refuses to take it. There were many reasons Miles left his village. Most of them are less exciting than Bashir probably imagines, but all of them are his. Besides, it hasn't escaped his notice that in all the weeks they've been talking, Bashir has yet to volunteer anything about his background, either.

Fortunately, Bashir has interests other than the past. “Perhaps it's an omen of what's to come.”

“Perhaps.” Miles raises an eyebrow. “This wouldn't have anything to do with the trading vessel that arrived yesterday, would it?”

“It might,” says Bashir coyly.

“Forget it. I met their doctor. He may not have been salutatorian at Oxford, but he seems capable enough.”

Bashir lets out a dramatic sigh. “Alas. Imagine how glorious it could have been, Miles. Us, merchant princes of the Far East.”

“Maybe twenty years ago,” Miles scoffs. “Today, the ports are full of would-be princes, scraping together the last of their coin for enough raw fish and seaweed to make a meal. And aren't you the one always going on about money being nothing compared to the chance to blaze a trail across the uncharted frontier?”

“True.” Bashir picks up the pitcher and refills their glasses. “So much for Nippon, then. Shall we discuss the North instead?”

Miles takes a swallow of beer to hide his smile. “If you like.”

\- 

“Sorry, Chief,” says Leeta, plunking down a glass of Miles's usual brew. “Your friend isn't here yet.”

“He never is,” Keiko says, at the same time Miles asks, “Friend?”

Leeta blinks at him as though he's the one who requires regular explanations of basic concepts. “Doctor Bashir.”

“I know who you meant,” Miles tells her, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. He would say he doesn't know what Bashir sees in her, except that he's pretty sure the attraction can only be visual. “I just...wouldn't describe him that way.”

“You're in here every week, buying each other drinks and gossiping worse than the serving girls,” Quark interjects from across the bar. “What would you call it?”

Miles is caught short, but only for a few seconds. “A pair of outcasts, making the best of our limited options in this place.”

“I've heard worse definitions,” says Quark.

This time, Miles doesn't bother to hide his annoyance. “Whatever happened to the customer is always right?”

“Fine, don't listen to me,” Quark sniggers. “But you might want to have a chat with that daemon of yours.”

A thumping from under the table that Miles recognizes as Keiko's tail abruptly comes to a stop.

“Traitor,” Miles mutters, as Bashir—who, Miles realizes, he hasn't thought of as Bashir for a while—walks up to him, beaming.

\- 

For all that Julian always begins the talk of leaving the outpost, it is Miles who finds himself approached one day by an officer wearing a priest's collar and the insignia of the Church.

“There's a great deal of interesting work to be done, particularly for a clever, mechanical-minded fellow. Not just airships, either.” The officer presses a coin-laden pouch into Miles's hand before he can protest. “Just a small token of what we can offer. We'll be here at least a few more days to refuel. Think on it.”

Miles tries, but all he can focus on is what he'll be leaving behind. If it weren't for Julian, he wouldn't even be considering the proposition. He's seen enough of the adventuring life to know that a post with steady food and wages, run by a sensible leader who respects his work and expects others to treat him with respect is not the sort of thing to be thrown away on a whim. The thought of abandoning the friend whose fanciful speculations reminded him that new discoveries can be their own reward turns his insides colder than the North itself.

On the other hand, turning down the Magisterium doesn't strike him as the wisest of life choices. And maybe leaving wouldn't mean having to give up everything.

“It's a research station,” he tells Julian that evening. “Bolvangar, I think he called it. I imagine they'd be looking—”

He is interrupted by the sound of Julian's glass crashing to the floor. Elim stands frozen on Julian's shoulder, eyes a thousand miles away and burning with an alien rage. 

“No. Not that ship. Not that place.” Julian's words are harsher than Miles thought a human voice could be. “Pardon me, Miles. I have an urgent appointment with the commander.” 

The next day, the zeppelin is gone, and Miles finds Julian at The Cog and The Cask ahead of him for once. He takes his seat and slides a pint of the doctor's favorite ale across the table.

“If you want to tell, I won't stop you,” he says.

“I know,” says Julian, with a trace of his typical smile that strengthens as he launches straight into an account of a recent patient so stricken with hypothermia his skin had turned blue. 

They never address the subject again. Despite his curiosity, Miles admits to some relief. Certain matters are best left unexplored.

\- 

“About the ship that came through today,” Julian begins, as Miles knew he would from the minute it was assigned a berth. “The one from the North.”

Miles downs half his glass at a gulp. “I'm sure you'll get the crew through your clinic sometime this week and talk their ears off.”

“We'll do no such thing,” huffs Elim with exaggerated offense, before relenting under Miles and Keiko's combined stare. “Well, only a little.”

“Do you think they need a doctor for their next trip?” Julian persists.

“I don't know,” says Miles, with an irritability that is far more ritual than real. “Their captain’ll be hanging around the docks tomorrow while I work on his engines. Ask him if you're interested.” 

Julian leans forward for a moment, eyes a shade too wide and eager, then shakes his head and smiles wistfully. “I can't. It's only a sweet fantasy to pass the time.”

Miles's throat goes dry at the confession. “Julian,” he says, half afraid to voice what has become his greatest fear, and half afraid of failing to persuade his friend not to give up his dreams. “You've been on about this for years now. Getting on a ship—”

“It wouldn't be the same,” Julian cuts him off. “I would miss it here. My patients, the clinic...my time here with you in the old Cog and Cask.”

“Staring at Leeta when you think she can't see,” Miles smirks, thinking on how far that friendship has come from Julian's other disastrous first impression. “Or chatting up the Dax sisters.”

Julian doesn't take the bait. “I meant I'd miss _you_ , you stubborn old mule.” His fingers, dangling off the table, come within an inch of brushing Keiko's fur. She doesn't flinch. Neither does Miles.

Leeta drops off a fresh pitcher, and the moment passes, taking Julian's attention with it. Miles can't help but snort. “It's not me you'd miss.”

“Don't be cold, Miles,” Elim chides.

Julian's smile has settled somewhere between teasing and the earnestness of earlier. “Leeta wouldn’t pack up and get on an airship to see the northern lights over the arctic tundra with me.” 

“Neither would I,” lies Miles, and doesn't need to look at Elim or Keiko's reactions to know that Julian knows he's lying. He's glad Julian doesn't, either.

They are in the middle of a debate over whether armored bears would respond better to diplomacy or a show of strength when a shadow falls over their table. Miles looks up and recognizes the captain of the airship under discussion.

“'Scuse me, gentlemen,” the captain says in a Texan drawl, with a courtly nod at Keiko, followed by a shorter acknowledgment of his own daemon. “Please forgive the eavesdropping. With ears like Hester's, it can be hard to avoid sometimes.”

“Don't you go blaming this on me, Lee,” the hare snaps.

“Lee Scoresby?” Julian breathes. Miles, startled, takes a closer look at the man and prays that if his mutter of _“This one might actually know his engines from his arsehole”_ to Keiko earlier on the docks was overheard, it came across as the high praise it was intended to be.

“My reputation precedes me. For the better, I hope.” Captain Scoresby tips his hat. “As it happens, I am bound back North, and in need of a skilled doctor _and_ mechanic.” He lets this declaration hang in silence for a moment. “Now, if I might take the liberty of procuring the next round, perhaps you'll allow a stranger to join your society this evening?”

Miles waits for Julian's delighted exclamation of agreement, only to realize that Julian is looking to him.

“No such thing as strangers here, Captain,” he says, signaling Leeta for a spare glass and motioning to their guest to have a seat. “Only offers of new opportunities.”


End file.
